The Wifey On His Burner Phone

My son, Leo, stood in the doorway, holding a phone.

I was washing dishes and asked, without looking, “Where did you get that?”

“From Dad.”

“Put it back.”

“But Dad has two phones, Mom.”

I dried my hands and walked over.

It was an older Samsung, not the sleek new iPhone Daniel usually carried.

“This one…” I took the phone. The screen lit up.

The WeChat interface.

The pinned chat was labeled, “Wifey.”

I stared at the two words, my fingers going rigid.

“Mom, the other phone Dad has, there’s an auntie who calls him ‘Honey,’ too.”

Leo tilted his head, blinking up at me, his face utterly innocent.

The clock in the living room ticked, a slow, relentless sound.

I slowly crouched down and stroked my son’s hair.

“Leo, Mommy is going to keep this phone for a while.”

My voice was unnervingly calm. But the hand holding the phone was shaking.

1

Daniel didn’t come home that night.

He sent a text saying he had client obligations and told me not to wait up.

I didn’t reply.

I sat on the sofa with two phones laid out before me. One was his usual iPhone; the other was the Samsung Leo had dug out of his gym bag.

He’d left in a hurry and forgotten it. Or, more accurately, for six years, he had hidden this phone flawlessly, never bringing it home.

Until tonight.

I took a deep breath and opened the Samsung.

There were only two contacts in the chat list. One was “Wifey,” and the other was “Mom.”

I tapped on “Wifey’s” chat log.

The date of the very first message was March 7, 2018. That was the second year of our marriage.

“Honey, I miss you.”

“Me too, babe.”

I scrolled down.

“Honey, can you come out tonight?”

“Can’t. She’s watching me closely lately. Just wait.”

She.

That was me.

I kept scrolling.

“Honey, you said you’d marry me, right?”

“Of course, when the time is right.”

“Honey, this month’s rent is due.”

“Okay, I’ll transfer it now.”

The transfer records.

$1,500.

Every single month, without fail. $1,500.

My hand trembled.

Further down.

“Wifey, I found the car I promised. The Mini Cooper you like.”

“Really? You’re the best, Honey!”

“It’s forty thousand down. I’ll cover it.”

Another transfer.

I continued.

“Wifey, I’m looking at condos for us. As soon as I save up the down payment, I’ll buy it.”

“Oh, Honey, I want one with a huge balcony!”

“Done. Whatever you want.”

I scrolled mechanically.

One year.

Two years.

Three years.

Four years.

Five years.

Six years.

Six years of chat logs.

Six years of wire transfers.

Six years of sweet words.

Six years of “Honey” and “Wifey.”

And me, his legal wife, in those six years, I was criticized for spending $50 on a new top.

I opened the transfer records and began calculating, transaction by transaction.

$1,500 x 12 months x 6 years = $108,000.

Add the $40,000 car down payment.

Add the down payment for the condo—I found the record—$100,000.

Plus scattered gifts, red envelopes, bags, clothes, vacations…

It took me two hours to total all the transfers.

$300,000.

Six years, $300,000.

I sat on the sofa, staring at the number, my eyes aching with dryness.

Last year, my mother was hospitalized and needed surgery. $8,000.

I went to him for help.

What did he say?

“Your mother’s issues are yours to handle. Where am I going to find eight thousand dollars? The company’s cash flow is tight.”

I begged him, on my knees.

He sighed, “Fine, stop crying. I’ll see what I can do.”

He finally gave me $5,000. And I was tearfully grateful, believing he was a good husband.

$300,000.

How many surgeries would that cover for my mother?

The living room light was harsh. I closed my eyes, then opened them again.

Then, I started taking screenshots.

One by one.

Chat logs.

Transfer records.

Voice messages.

Photos.

His selfies sent to her.

Her selfies sent to him.

Photos of them together.

Pictures from a trip he told me was a “corporate retreat.”

I spent another two hours compiling everything.

When I was finished, I placed the phone back in his gym bag, precisely where he had hidden it.

Then, I washed my face, checked Leo’s homework, and tucked him into bed.

Lying in our bed, I stared at the ceiling.

Daniel.

We’ve been married for seven years.

You’ve lied to me for six.

I didn’t know what I was feeling in that moment. Anger? Heartbreak? Despair?

All of the above.

But more than anything, there was a strange, cold calm. It was as if someone had stabbed me, and while the blood poured out, I became perfectly lucid.

The phone vibrated.

It was Daniel’s text:

“Wife, too much to drink at the dinner tonight. Staying out. Go to sleep early.”

I stared at the message, the corner of my mouth twitching.

Then, I opened his chat with the mistress and found today’s date.

At the exact same time, he sent her:

“Wifey, I’m home. Spending the night with you.”

Home.

His home was not here.

It was with her.

I put the phone down, closed my eyes, and waited for the morning.

Daniel, you think I’m going to cry?

I won’t.

I’ve made my decision.

2.

Daniel came back the next morning.

He looked a little tired but was in a good mood and was carrying a bouquet.

“Wife, these are for you.”

I took the flowers and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Where’s Leo?”

“At daycare.”

He nodded and walked toward the bedroom to change.

I watched his retreating back, my voice flat.

“Did you find your Samsung phone?”

His step hitched.

Just for a second.

Then he turned around, his expression normal. “What Samsung phone?”

“Leo said there was a phone in your gym bag.”

“Oh, that. That’s a work phone the company gave me. Just for business.” He smiled easily. “Kids always rummaging through things. I’ve told him a thousand times.”

“A company phone?”

“Yeah, business needs. Two phones make things easier.”

He said it so casually.

I nodded. “I see.”

He visibly relaxed and went into the bedroom.

I stood in the doorway, looking at the bouquet in my hands.

Lilies. My favorite. He actually remembered.

But what good were a few flowers?

What he gave her was a car, a condo, and six years of devotion.

What he gave me was a $20 bouquet of lilies.

I put the flowers in a vase and walked into the kitchen to start dinner.

As I was chopping vegetables, I spoke, my voice loud in the quiet house.

“Honey.”

“Hmm?” He was watching sports in the living room.

“Last year, when my mother was hospitalized, you said the company’s cash flow was tight and could only give me five thousand.”

“…Yeah, what about it?”

“Nothing.” I paused. “Just thinking about it.”

The knife came down sharply on the cutting board, a clear, decisive thwack.

“I did the math. The person on your… ‘business phone’—you’ve transferred them about three hundred thousand over the years.”

Silence blanketed the living room. The sound of the TV was still there, but Daniel didn’t speak.

“Three hundred thousand.” I repeated the number, still perfectly calm. “How many surgeries would that cover for my mother?”

“What are you talking about?” His voice came from the living room, laced with sudden tension.

I didn’t answer.

I heard him get up, his footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Maya.” He stood in the kitchen doorway, his voice low and dangerous. “Did you go through my phone?”

I looked up at him.

His eyes held panic, annoyance, and a sliver of… guilt.

“I did.” I said.

“You—”

“Seven years married, six years cheating.” I cut him off. “Daniel, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

His face flushed a deep red.

“You goddamn—”

“Three hundred thousand.” I said the number again. “How many surgeries for your mother? You always claimed we were tight on money.”

He froze.

“You—”

“You bought her a condo, a car, and transfer her fifteen hundred in allowance every month.” I listed each item calmly. “But you complained when I bought a fifty-dollar top.”

“Maya!” he roared.

“Why are you shouting?” I put the knife down and looked at him. “A guilty conscience?”

His chest was heaving.

“You, you let me explain—”

“No need.”

“That woman was harassing me! It wasn’t serious—”

“Daniel.”

I interrupted him again.

“You called her ‘Wifey.’”

His words caught in his throat.

“You called her Wifey, and you called me Wife.” I smiled faintly. “How many wives do you have?”

He opened his mouth, speechless.

“You say it was nothing. What was the three hundred thousand for? Throwing money away?”

“That was—that was—”

“What was it? Say it.”

He fell silent.

I waited a few seconds, then turned back to chopping vegetables.

“Nothing more to say, then. I know everything I need to know.”

“Maya, what do you want?”

“What do I want?” I didn’t look up. “I haven’t decided yet. But you can start thinking about what you want.”

“What does that mean?”

“Divorce.” I said the word with careless ease.

He stared for a moment, then sneered.

“Divorce? Dream on.”

“Oh? You disagree?”

“Maya, I’m telling you, you can have a divorce, but you aren’t getting anything from this marriage.”

My chopping stopped again.

“The condo is in my parents’ name. The car is in mine. Savings…” He smirked. “What are you going to take?”

I turned and looked at him. His face was a mask of smug entitlement.

“You can leave,” he articulated slowly, “but you aren’t taking anything with you. Except your son.”

I looked at him, and then I smiled.

“Daniel.”

“What?”

“You forgot one thing.”

“What?”

“Before we got married, when you were chasing me, you signed an agreement.”

His color changed.

“What agreement?”

“You forgot?” I tilted my head. “It stipulated that if you committed adultery, you would voluntarily relinquish all claims to marital assets.”

“That—that was—”

“That was your signature, and your thumbprint.”

His face went completely white.

“I…”

“Well?” I watched him. “Did you remember?”

He opened his mouth, unable to speak a word.

I turned back around, continuing to chop the vegetables.

“Like I said, I haven’t decided yet. But you should start thinking about how you plan to handle that agreement.”

The kitchen fell quiet.

Only the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board. Clear. Forceful.

3.

That night, Daniel didn’t sleep in the master bedroom. He took the guest room.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind a whirl.

The agreement was a deliberate move.

It was real. Before we married, he’d pursued me for two years, and I kept turning him down. Finally, I gave him a condition: sign a written fidelity agreement, guaranteeing loyalty after marriage, or forfeit all assets.

He signed it.

At the time, he’d been full of passionate promises that he’d only ever love me.

I believed him.

I filed the agreement away, hidden where he would never look. I thought I’d never need it.

Now, I did.

But the agreement alone wasn’t enough. I needed more evidence.

The next morning, I took a personal day and went to Sophia’s law office. Sophia was my college roommate and became an attorney after graduation.

She listened to my story, her expression hardening.

“Jesus, this Daniel.” She swore. “Maya, what’s your plan?”

“Divorce.”

“Good. I’m with you.”

“But I need solid evidence.”

“You have the chat logs and transfer records, don’t you?”

“Those are from his burner phone, just screenshots,” I explained. “I need the bank statements to prove that the three hundred thousand came out of our joint marital accounts.”

“I can pull those for you.” Sophia nodded. “What else?”

“Information on the mistress. I only know her WeChat name; I don’t know who she is or where she lives.”

“That’s searchable.”

“And…” I paused. “I need to know if the condo he bought her can be recovered.”

Sophia pondered this.

“If we can prove it was purchased with marital funds—joint savings—then we can certainly file a claim for recovery.”

“Good.”

“Maya.” Sophia looked at me closely. “You’re incredibly calm right now.”

“If I wasn’t calm, what good would that do?” I gave a wry smile. “Cry?”

“You’re allowed to cry.”

“Would it change anything?”

Sophia sighed and reached out, gripping my hand. “I’ll help you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’ve never liked Daniel anyway. A jerk needs to be taken down.”

I nodded.

Walking out of the law office, the sunshine was blinding. I stood on the street corner and took a deep breath.

My phone rang. It was Daniel.

“Where are you?”

“Out.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Later.”

“Maya, don’t make a scene. Come home and we can talk.”

I didn’t reply. I hung up.

He thought I was making a “scene.” He assumed I was just having a tantrum and would get over it in a couple of days.

He had no idea I had started a campaign.

Three days later, Sophia sent me the investigation results.

The mistress’s name was Madison, Maddy, for short. Twenty-eight years old, a server at a high-end cocktail lounge.

She met Daniel at a client dinner.

Daniel had just been promoted to Sales Director, which meant more outings and more drinking.

Maddy was a server at the high-end spot. Daniel noticed her immediately.

That year, I was six months pregnant. I was home, nauseous and caring for my unborn child, while he was out flirting and sleeping with other women.

I looked at the documents Sophia sent me, a heavy stone settling in my chest.

But I didn’t shed a tear.

I kept reading.

In 2020, Daniel bought Maddy a Mini Cooper. $40,000 down, which he paid.

In 2021, Daniel started looking for a condo for Maddy.

In 2022, Daniel bought Maddy a small two-bedroom condo. The down payment was $100,000; it was a cash purchase.

The deed was in Maddy’s name. But the purchase funds came directly from Daniel’s salary account.

And that salary account was a joint marital asset.

I organized all the information and saved it in an encrypted folder.

Then, I started going through the bank statements Sophia got for me.

Six years.

267 transfers.

Aside from the fixed $1,500 monthly allowance, there were countless gifts, shopping sprees, vacations, and bonuses…

I went through them, transaction by transaction, and the irony was suffocating.

May 2019, Transfer $3,000, Note: Happy Birthday, Babe.

The same day was my birthday. He treated me to dinner, $150 a person.

February 2020, Transfer $8,000, Note: For a New Designer Bag.

The same month, I asked about enrolling Leo in an early education class. Daniel said it was too expensive and unnecessary.

July 2021, Transfer $15,000, Note: Maldives Trip for Us, Babe.